Tapping to the beat of my own heart
by SHERlockedFangirl
Summary: It was obvious. Sherlock Holmes was in love. And not just with anyone, with his best friend, John Watson. He needed to let it out, or the weight of his own secret would surely crush him. And then, Sherlock came up with the perfect solution, one which meant getting it off his chest, whilst never having to voice anything out loud.


Sherlock Holmes did not do feelings. He never had done. All his life he'd preferred to keep his emotions tucked away, out of sight, under lock and key. And he'd been successful. So successful that no-one bothered to contradict his self-diagnosis as a high-functioning sociopath. He seemed to fit all the criteria. Only Sherlock was aware that he actually possessed any emotion.

That was until John Watson moved into his life. Sherlock wasn't sure what he felt when he looked at his flatmate. It had all been so simple and easy, up until the moment John had shot the homicidal cabbie to save Sherlock's own life - such a selfless, brave and reckless act that sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine every time he thought about it.

That had been the turning point, as Sherlock caught sight of John on the other side of the police tape. His mind has shuddered to a halt – a spectacular feat in itself. He couldn't form words as he took in the sight of the army doctor, trying to blend in with the crowd, to look like the innocent party. Sherlock had felt his heart rate increase, and felt the strange fluttering and swooping sensation in his stomach that was usually associated with Fight or Flight. He felt a warmth surrounding him, much more efficient than any shock blanket, and suddenly, the emotions began to claw their way out of their prison and infiltrate his mind and body.

From that point, Sherlock found that he couldn't resist thinking about John at every available opportunity. It made concentrating on The Work significantly more difficult. However, Sherlock persisted and attempted to keep his thoughts at bay whenever they were out on a job. But all it took was one word from John – "amazing," "brilliant," "fantastic," – and Sherlock's thoughts once again betrayed him. He found himself purposefully showing off more and more around John just to hear him say these things. And when he did, a faint blush would creep over the detective's face, and he couldn't help smiling to himself. Of course, he tried to hide it whenever this happened, but if Lestrade caught his eye once or twice, neither of them mentioned it.

Even between cases, when Sherlock was pacing around his flat or retreating into his mind palace, Sherlock found himself replaying these praises to himself in his mind, hearing John's voice telling him he was amazing over and over again. The feeling he got from this was better than any high he'd ever experienced. Sherlock did not know why he was thinking about John so much. Was it normal for flatmates to think about each other often? What did Sherlock label John now?

They were well beyond the boundaries of being just 'flat mates'. Indeed, Sherlock would now label John as a friend – the best and only friend Sherlock had. Sherlock Holmes had a friend. One that did not shy away from his social abnormalities or the body parts in the fridge and the experiments in the kitchen, no. John would never do that, because he was Sherlock's friend. And God, did it make him sound like a silly, over hormonal teenage girl, but Sherlock found himself incredibly happy and proud that he had managed to gain what had always out of reach. And apparently, this was registering outside as well.

"What's got you so pleased?" John had asked him one evening as Sherlock paced back and forth across the length of the living room.

"Pleased? What makes you think I'd be pleased?"

"Well, you're smiling like the bloody cat who's got the cream."

"I am?"

"Yeah. You're entire face is lit up. You should smile more often, it suits you." John grinned sheepishly up at Sherlock from his armchair as he'd said this.

Sherlock had been unaware that the emotions he'd kept locked away for so long were leaking out onto the surface. He twisted his face into his usual scowl and thrown a cutting remark at John about something – Sherlock did not care to remember – before throwing himself dramatically onto the sofa to continue to sulk. He heard John chuckle and return to his newspaper, saying something about 'back to normal then.' But it was good-natured.

John liked his smile. It suited him. Sherlock buried his face in the pillow, trying to hide his face as it burned with another red flush. Once again he felt the speed of his heartbeat increase, and the swooping sensation in his stomach. Sherlock didn't know why he felt like this, or even know what to name this particular feeling. He'd never experienced anything like it, it was so all consuming. He'd have to get control over his body. He couldn't let John realise something was going on before he'd figured it out himself.

A few nights after the incident with the smiling, John announced he had a date. A date with a woman. Stupid, of course it would be with a woman. For some reason, this made Sherlock incredibly uncomfortable and angry. But Sherlock couldn't pinpoint the problem. Why should John going on a date cause him to be so… irrational? John brought the woman, Stephanie or Sophie – something like that – up to the flat to introduce her to Sherlock before they left for dinner.

Sherlock decided almost immediately that he didn't like her. She was clearly only using John to get back at her old boyfriend and make him jealous. Her dress was too tight fitting, short and low-cut for a first date, and the amount of flowery, sweet perfume she was wearing was powerful enough to knock out a small child. She was too desperate, obvious. She kept fiddling with the silver heart necklace around her neck, obviously from a previous lover, and it still held sentimental value, so he was obviously important to her. The fact she was playing with it conveyed nervousness and guilt – nervousness for the date ahead and hoping her plan would work, and guilt for using John so cruelly. Sherlock could feel his hands ball into fists at his side and he clenched his jaw tightly closed so he didn't accidentally (or on purpose) blurt out her true intentions for the evening. John deserved so much better than that. So much better.

Sherlock felt a surge of possessiveness at these new thoughts. No, she could not be allowed to hurt John. No one should ever hurt his blogger. Sherlock would not let them. It was Sherlock's job to…

Ah, unreasonable anger and possessiveness. Sherlock was experiencing jealousy. The realisation hit him like a locomotive train, rendering him completely useless for a microsecond. It wasn't so much the woman herself that John was taking out; it was the fact that it wasn't him. But why on earth should he feel like that unless… Oh. Oh no.

Jealousy, possessiveness, increased heart rate, constant thoughts about John, smiling because of John, the things he said, what he's done, the swooping sensation in his stomach…

It was obvious.

Sherlock Holmes was in love. And not just with anyone, with his best friend, John Watson.

John seemed blissfully unaware of both his date's and Sherlock's inner turmoil, and eager for the date to go well. He was just about to leave when Sherlock called out to him.

"John."

John turned to him and held Sherlock's intense gaze. He could hear John's date descend to the hallway below, leaving Sherlock and John alone in the flat momentarily. Sherlock began to move towards John in measured, deliberate steps. HE came as close as he's dared get to John without risking giving away his newly discovered affection for the man. John continued to maintain eye contact with Sherlock, leaning his head back slightly to cope with the height difference. Sherlock's heart must have been beating at twice its usual rate and Sherlock felt sure John must have been able to hear it.

He opened his mouth to try and convince him to stay, sure he could come up with a reasonable explanation and hoping that maybe, John could help him figure out what kind of mess these emotions had left him in. But in the end, all he could manage was, "I hope you have a nice evening."

But when he returned home at only 10pm that evening, it was obvious the date had not gone as intended. Sherlock had spent most of the evening sat in his armchair, staring at John's, thinking about how best to hide his attraction from John – who simply could never, under any circumstances ever find out. It would ruin their friendship, and Sherlock couldn't risk it. Not after he realised that this is what had been missing from his life. No. They needed to remain friends, and that was only going to work if Sherlock didn't reveal the extent of his feelings to his flat mate.

When Sherlock had asked John what had gone wrong – fully suspecting that the girl had revealed her plans - the army doctor simply smiled ruefully and answered, "she wasn't the girl for me." He gazed at Sherlock with the same intensity as before, and Sherlock felt the familiar fluttering sensation as his grey eyes locked with John's dark blue ones. John seemed to unconsciously make his way towards Sherlock, still in his chair. Holding the daze, John's face only a few inches form Sherlock's, he continued, "Besides, I was much too distracted thinking about something else."

Sherlock dismissed this, thinking that John had been too busy concentrating on the write-up for their most recent case – which John was halfway through. He turned his face away from John, fearful of his unconscious reactions to John's closeness revealing too much. John smiled sadly and moved away, up to hi bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone in the living room to try not to think about how good it had felt to have John so close to him, and how much he had wanted to close the distance.

Months passed and they took on more cases, argued more about how leaving a set of lungs in the fridge right next to the leftover stew is completely unhygienic, ate more takeaway and just living their lives. But John didn't seem to go out on any more dates, meaning that he was around Sherlock almost constantly, which made it increasingly more difficult for Sherlock to avoid the problem he was facing.

The more time he seemed to spend around John, the harder he fell. Things about John that used to annoy him, still annoyed him, but he never lashed out because it was John. He still continued to show off with his deductions during cases, and John continued to use every synonym of 'amazing' that existed. He smiled more at Sherlock, which encouraged Sherlock to smile back, which made John smile more which made Sherlock's smile brighter and on and on in a vicious circle.

It would happen even if they weren't at a crime scene. They would catch each other's eye across the flat, and then John would initiate the smiling. They sat closer together in cabs, and causal touches were becoming more and more common – a hand to the shoulder as they doubled over laughing, a gentle scrape of fingers as they passed each other cups of tea. These moments of intimacy just built on Sherlock's affection for him. And if Sherlock was honest, it was all rather distracting. It was reaching the point where it was almost intolerable. Sherlock wished he could just have it out and tell John exactly how he felt.

He wanted to wake up in the morning and see John there, in his bed, with him. He wanted to protect John and in turn know that John would protect him. He wanted to hold John close, and be held close. He wanted to show John off to the world, so everyone would know that John belonged to him and that he belonged to John. To finally show that someone wanted him as everyone wanted to be wanted. He wanted to share everything with him, and in turn learn everything there is to learn about John Watson. He wanted to kiss John, to claim his mouth with his own and show John just how much he meant to him. He wanted to take John apart, and wanted to be taken apart by John. He wanted everything. He had never felt this way before, and had never considered any of this with anyone else. He wanted to share is ambitions, his life, even his name. A future without John was not a future Sherlock wanted.

But John was straight – or at least, always insisting that he wasn't Sherlock's date. John could never want Sherlock they way Sherlock wanted John, needed John, like air in his lungs and blood in his veins. And Sherlock could never put any of this into words. Sherlock was sure John was just being friendly. Surely this was the normal behaviour of close friends?

He needed to let it out, or the weight of his own secret would surely crush him. He considered talking to Molly, but she wouldn't understand, having always been infatuated with Sherlock. What he felt for John was not infatuation, he was sure of it. Lestrade? No, he couldn't bear the smug grin that would undoubtedly appear if he ever revealed any of this to the DI. And there was absolutely no way he was going to Mycroft for help.

And then, Sherlock came up with the perfect solution, one which meant getting it off his chest, whilst never having to voice anything out loud.

The next day, whenever John was in the room, Sherlock's agile and adept fingers would begin to tap out a repetitive rhythm.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-**

John didn't seem to notice the tapping, assuming it was just Sherlock being impatient as he sat at the microscope.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-**

It continued whenever there was a solid surface and John was in the room. Sherlock sighed in relief, and felt some of the tension that had been building in his body. He no longer felt like a tightly wound spring, and he felt himself relax more as he continued to tap out his message.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-** (I love you)

After three days of continuous tapping on the tables, the arms of the sofa, even on his violin as he was that morning as he sat in his armchair, thinking, holding onto his violin, something happened that Sherlock was not expecting. He had just finished his tapping…

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-**

when…

.**. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..- / - - - / -.- - ..- / ... - ..- .-. .. -.. / -. .. –**

Sherlock froze, fingers ceasing to tap immediately. Sherlock turned to John, who was sat in his chair reading a book Sherlock did not care to remember the title of. One hand was holding the book; the other was resting against his cheek.

Continuing to focus on John, Sherlock tapped out his rhythm once again, still watching the doctor.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-**

John's hand that was touching his cheek removed itself and rested on the arm of the chair. And after a moment of hesitation, his fingers began to tap against the fabric of the chair.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..- / - - - / -.- - ..- / ... - ..- .-. .. -.. / -. .. –**

Sherlock's eyes widened as he watched the movement of John's finger. His mind whirled as he assigned letters and words to the tapping. Helpfully, John repeated his tapping.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..- / - - - / -.- - ..- / ... - ..- .-. .. -.. / -. .. –** (I love you too you stupid git)

"John."

John looked up from his book, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

"Yes, Sherlock?

"I- You-" Sherlock's mind struggled to make sense of what was happening. His mind went blank as he tried to piece together the evidence. John chose to take pity on the detective, moving over to him and pulling the violin out of his hands, resting it gently on the floor beside them. With Sherlock's hands now empty, he had nothing to hold onto that could ground him into reality and he played out John's rhythm over again in his head. John once again came to his aid, filling the empty space between Sherlock's long, pale fingers with his own shorter, tanned ones.

Sherlock zeroed in on their joined hands and held on tightly. His eyes opened wide as if this simple act was the most fascinating thing he had ever come across. Eventually, once he was satisfied that John wasn't letting go anytime soon, he moved his gaze from their hands to John's face, which was settled into an expression of bemusement.

"John." Sherlock's voice was breathy and desperate, as if this name was the most singular most important name in existence, which of course it was because it belonged to John.

"Sherlock," John began, a wide grin now spreading across his face, "you are such an idiot." His voice was so full of fondness and tenderness that Sherlock found it impossible to take offence. "I was in the army Sherlock, I know Morse code."

How had Sherlock forgotten? Well, it was simple really. He was so focused on getting the words out and relieving himself of the secret that he neglected to remember that as a soldier, John would have been trained to recognise and communicate in Morse code.

John was laughing now, and Sherlock found the need to join in with it. They laughed together, hands still clasped tightly together until John moved one to the nape of Sherlock's neck, bringing them closer together until their foreheads were touching. After the laughter had subsided, Sherlock braved another look at John's face. It was difficult, considering the proxemics of the situation, but Sherlock found the blue of John's eyes and profoundly did not care about how silly or uncomfortable this may be, because it felt right. He closed his eyes and revelled in the moment, treasuring each second that went by, breathing each others air and just being together. Logic and rational thinking began to quietly return to Sherlock's mind, and Sherlock once again tried to make sense of the situation

"But, you're not attracted to men."

"Not men. Just the one."

"But your date, with Sarah-"

"Her name was Samantha. And I told you, I was thinking about something else all night."

"The case?"

John snorted. "You truly are an idiot. I was thinking about you, and how much I'd rather be treating you to dinner than her."

"Oh." Sherlock's face must've been a picture, because eJohn started to laugh again. When Sherlock looked affronted and a little hurt, John sobered up. He shook his head, still smiling.

"You have the world's most adorable pout."

"I do not."

"Yes you do."

"I do-" But the rest of Sherlock's protests were cut off by John's lips, which were now pressed against his own. Sherlock melted into the kiss, allowing the warmth that radiated from John to permeate his skin and fill him up. As John continued to kiss him, deeper and with more passion and desperation, Sherlock noted how complete he felt. He was meant to be here, in John's arms, kissing him, poring everything he'd felt over the last months into the kiss, allowing it to consume him, and his mind went blissfully blank.

When Sherlock woke the next morning, he did not feel the ache in his stomach of knowing another day lay ahead where he did not have John. Because now he did. Now, as he had his arms wrapped around John's waist, holding him tightly against his chest, fingers weaved together on John's stomach, and burying his nose into the nape of John's neck, he was glad he'd never have to feel that ache again.

He trailed feather light kisses up the side of John's neck and felt the man stir in his arms. He continued his trail across John's cheek, and he felt John turn to meet him, their lips coming together like two pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. They stayed there, cocooned in their own happiness as London woke up around them. They could hear the car engines and the pedestrians on the street, but for now, the only concentrated on each other.

Sherlock pulled back to look at John.

_John. His John._

His fingers moved automatically, tapping out the familiar rhythm on the back of John's hand.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..-**

John smiled up at Sherlock and planted another kiss on the detective's lips as he tapped out his own response.

**.. / .-.. - ...- . / -.- - ..- / - - - / -.- - ..- / ... - ..- .-. .. -.. / -. .. –**


End file.
